


A Small Piece

by fairyboypoet



Category: Original Work
Genre: 1920s, 20th Century, Bakery, Communism, Historical, Labor Unions, M/M, Milo is easily flustered, Slow Burn, UST, and the poor baker mixed up in it all
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:07:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24513595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairyboypoet/pseuds/fairyboypoet
Summary: A little preview of a new work! Finally after all this time! (sorry)The Polish-American neighborhood of River West is in a wave of relative peace, business is good and unrest is at a minimum. Milo is happy to live a quiet life baking bread and taking care of his family; that is until a strange new man arrives to spread some dangerous ideas.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 4





	1. Preview

“Have you heard?”  
“About the new man?”  
“Just got into town today-”  
“I heard he’s from New York-”  
“I heard he’s from Boston”  
“Either way, I heard hes…-”

“A communist.” The final word barely carried through the kitchen doors. The girls were gossiping at the front of the shop again. Not out of the ordinary for a slow day, but the bakery must be truly empty for them to be whispering about communists. Milo loaded up the tray with the loaves he’d just removed from the ovens and pushed through the doors into the main dining room. Sure enough, at his entrance, the shopgirls jumped apart and hurried to look busy.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tattle.” He set the tray on the counter and began placing the loaves on the shelves. Then, with a sly grin added, “so long as you tell me about this new Red in town.”

Hanna giggled. “I just heard he just came to town this morning, and he’s beautiful.”

“Alright.” He chuckled, “so he’s new and beautiful, how do we figure he’s a commie?”

“Well Lizzie said he got off the train in a flat cap and a suit, so couldn’t have been a businessman who matters, but he had a briefcase-”

Zofia cut her off, “and scruff! They said he looked rough, but not like he works for a living.”

“Well I’m sure we’ll have no business with him. If he really is a Red, he’ll be going straight to the workyards and we’ll never see him around here.”

“What if he makes friends with one of the Wójcik boys and he comes in for lunches?”

“Your imagination is getting the best of you, Hanna. Don’t let the excitement make you forget, we’re only scraping by here as it is, the last thing we need is commie stirring up trouble around here.” With that, Milo lifted the now empty tray off the counter and carried it back to the kitchen to continue baking. There were still pastries left to be filled and baked and the last thing he needed was to titter with the sisters about new men in town. 

But he did find the idea of a beautiful, scruffy-chinned communist fresh off the train somewhat thrilling, and thoughts of who the man could be and what had brought him in continued to buzz through his mind for the rest of the day until he closed the shop after the dinner rush. 

Even as he walked home, fresh loaf of bread for the family dinner tucked under his arm, questions pricked at his brain. It really made no sense, it’s not like the girls hadn’t spent afternoons giggling about newcomers before, even communist ones. He shook his head at his own foolishness as he stopped at a market stand for a slab of beef, per his mother’s request that morning, exchanging a few words with the butcher about the day’s business as he did. Jan had had no word of the new man, but seemed just as excited as the rest of them about whispers of communists in the neighborhood. Anarchists weren’t unheard of in the small community, and Milo and Jan had both seen their share of pamphlets and handouts in their years living in River West, but for some reason word of this new Red was spreading through the neighborhood with an unusual swiftness. 

Maybe he really was just that handsome.

Milo bade the butcher farewell and started his stroll down Chicago Avenue back home. 

The sun was out, finally, and the whispers of warm air were blowing across the stops of the brownstones. It was a relief, the cold finally breaking, and to enjoy it, Milo took the long way through the winding streets home. It would make dinner a little later, but the twins had been brats lately so he didn’t mind prolonging their dinner just a bit so he could take a stroll past the train yards, a favorite treat around this time of day as the workmen were often just finishing their shifts, wiping sweaty brows with coal-stained hands. It was definitely not a practice to imagine the marks those sooty fingers might leave on his body. But as he neared the yards, he heard something unusual. Voices rising from the tracks. Milo looked at the paper wrapped packages under his arm, the sun starting to dip lower in the sky, and slowly trod toward the sounds. As he got closer, he saw a group of workers gathered around a single figure standing above them, flat cap casting a shadow over his face. The closer he got the more he could hear, but it was the usual communist tract, workers rights, fair wages, safe conditions. Nothing he hadn’t read at least once on pamphlets that had found their ways under customers’ plates and cups at the bakery. 

He was about to turn to leave, he had no interest in being caught by police anywhere near any kind of dissent, when the speaker looked up and the setting sun caught his face under the grey cap. He really was beautiful, defined cheekbones, a hard jaw. It was hard to make out much more from the distance at which Milo had stopped to watch, but it would be a lie to say his breath didn’t catch in his throat just a little. 

He shook away the thought and continued home.


	2. The meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A normal day at the bakery takes a turn for the abnormal

It was barely sunrise when he arrived at the shop to open the next morning, the early light tinging the sky a deep navy blue as it prepared to kiss the arches of the facades on the old brownstones surrounding the storefront. This was Milo’s favorite time of day, made all the better when he could get his hands into a vat of dough while the sun crested over the high-set windows in the kitchen. 

By the time the sisters arrived at 6 for opening at 6:30, there were two trays of pastries and four of cookies ready to be sold, a carafe of coffee nearly brewed, and ten loaves of bread doing their second rise before the oven. All in order. All ordinary.

At 6:30, the doors opened and the day became...unordinary. 

Every workman who came through the door was carrying a pamphlet, talking in hushed whispers between orders, furtive glances from side to side. 

“Is it just me, or is our cafe becoming a haven for dissent?” Milo looked up from his kneading when Zofia came in to pick up a new tray of cookies. 

“I’ve been trying to ignore it, as the man himself has yet to appear.”

Milo glanced at the clock above the icebox. 7:45. 

“Still early, yet. He could yet come in. I hear they start their time later in those circles, when they aren’t trying to beat the wardens to the yards.”

“So cynical. Aren’t you excited to see him up close?”

Milo gave her a look. “Don’t push.” He warned.

“Sorry, sorry.” She gave him a sheepish but affectionate glance and carried the tray out to the dining room. 

More than happy to hide from the rush in the kitchen, Milo spent most of the next hour in his quietude kneading and mixing, until Zofia came in again. 

“We need you out front.” She looked like she was far too excited, asking him for this favor.

“For what?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Everyone’s still here and Hanna and I can’t take care of everyone on our own. Please, Milo?”

He looked down at the half-mixed kolaczki dough sadly, but picked it up and set it in the icebox before going to wipe the mix from his hands. “Alright, alright.” 

“Thank you Perełko.” 

He rolled his eyes and shooed her out, unnecessarily as she was already mostly out the door back into the main dining room. He brushed his hands off on his apron again before stepping out. 

And immediately understanding Zofia’s desperation. The bakery was packed, crowds of mostly workers over-filling all the small tables, which were only really there for the handful of older customers who spent their mornings over the same cup of coffee, not the men who stopped off for a loaf or a pastry and went on their way, and certainly not for gathering of large, gossiping crowds. But it didn’t take long out working the counter with the girls for the answer to the crowd to come strolling through the door. God, he really was beautiful. 

The new man walked in the door with a confidence Milo couldn’t imagine having, walking into anywhere in a strange town, head held high, giving a perfect view of his high cheekbones and sparkling blue eyes. Milo wanted to, desperately wished he could, resent him.

“Good morning.” His voice was just as gorgeous, damn him. And his smile. Fuck.

“Morning.” Milo managed to grunt back. Then remembered himself. “Uh, what can I get you?”

“I’m afraid I’m not really very familiar with Polish pastry, what would you recommend?” He flashed his charming smile. 

“Well, if you’re a fruit man, we make some of the best kolaczki in the city. If you’re more partial to cream, our Karpatka is always popular, or if you’re a cake man, I’d recommend the placek.”  
The man blinked and Milo worried momentarily he’d switched into full Polish somewhere without realizing. 

“So many options.” Was the answer from his mouth instead. “Um…” He looked down at the glass case. “Say that one again?” he pointed at the decadent sheet of pastry and cream. 

“Karpatka. It’s a sweet cream between two layers of pastry.”

“K-Karpatka.” He flushed at his own stumbling on the word. “I’ll try that.”

“Anything else? Cup of coffee?”

“Please.” 

“That’ll be a dollar total then.”

He nodded and set to gathering the order, trying not to notice that the man’s gaze hadn’t yet left his face. He felt like he was being studied. When he reached for a plate for the cake, he slipped his finger under the second in the stack to pull it silently from under the top plate, which was in the worst shape of any in the shop and he’d be damned if he’d serve a man like that off of a chipped plate. He set the prettiest piece on the plate and handed it over the counter alongside the nicest coffee cup he could find. 

The visitor set the dollar on the case and took his dishes. “Thank you.” He turned to leave but paused. “How late do you stay open?”

“We close around seven, usually.” He was glad the answer was automatic or the rush of thoughts to his brain about why he might be asking might have otherwise caused him to trip.   
“Perfect.” And with that, he finished turning and went to find a corner of the shop, the last remaining seat in the whole dining room. It didn’t take long for the crowd to start flocking to him, and it almost seemed like he was setting up some kind of interview lineup. The closest person would take the seat across from him, the two would talk quietly for a few minutes, then they would leave and the next closest person would take their place. It wasn’t hard for Milo to watch this turnover as he handed out cups of coffee and plates of snacks, trying to tell what they could be talking about. He had a few guesses, of course, but he couldn’t hear anything over the din. Besides, it’s not like he minded the watching being a little more arduous, the stranger got so animated when he talked, hands waving animatedly, face shadowed with intensity with each turn he took in conversation. It was mesmerizing. Once, on his third or fourth rotation, the man looked up and caught Milo’s eye, giving him a grin as he put together that the baker had been watching. Milo felt his face turn red. 

“I’m going back in the kitchen, it seems to have slowed enough you can handle it.” He told Hanna and definitely-did-not flee back to his dough and batter. 

His heart slowed to a normal pace as he worked the flour into the long-rested cookie dough, and his face turned to its usual not-tomato red. He’d had crushes before, of course, he’d come to understand as a teenager that the way he viewed other men was not exactly normal, but he’d never been so flustered by one simply looking at him before. Particularly because the new communist in town was nothing like the men that tended to fluster him. He was only as tall as Milo, and about as thin, he had a gentle face and soft hands, even if the scruff did add a bit of the ruggedness Milo liked in the dock and yard workers he tended to think about late at night. But his eyes and full lips and golden hair and something about the way he commanded the room when he entered was enticing and made Milo want desperately to learn more.

He shook his head, trying to force himself to focus on anything but how sweet he’d looked trying to remember all the names of the Polish pastries. 

After a few more hours of slower work, the girls started coming in with lunch orders and he set out making a batch of cebularz, a large pot of soup, and prepping fillings for dumplings. It was truly the most peace he ever felt, working alone in the kitchen like this, hearing the bustle of a full dining room outside. On days like this, he knew the girls would have another night of not having to worry about preserving their family business, and he would be safely bringing home buns and meat for the twins. 

Things went to their usual quiet after lunch, the man must have left after the increased traffic from the rush died down. 

Dinner too passed without much disquiet. He did have to make a bigger pot of pea soup than usual as more of the workers from the train yard seemed to be coming through, but he kept on top of it just fine and sent the girls off at 6:45 for him to close up. He tidied the kitchen, leaving the long-rise breads to sit overnight in their pantry and putting everything perishable in the icebox, just another soothing piece of his routine. Next was the dining room, the girls had done the dishes which just left wiping down the tables. As he ran the rag over the surface of the biggest central table, the bells above the door jingled.

“We actually just...closed.” He stood and turned to face the door, finding himself face to face with the beautiful man. 

“I saw.” He gestured back to the sign hanging on the door. “I’m sorry, I just saw you in here alone and thought you might like the company.”

“I’m just washing up, I couldn’t possibly ask you to help, so unless you’d like to just stand there and watch…” He held up the dirty rag as he shrugged before flopping it wetly back down on the table.

“Well, it certainly isn’t a bad view, I don’t mind.” 

Surely he’d misheard. But he knew he hadn’t. And could very well feel his face turning red. “W-..I...were you...were you just passing by or?”

“I remembered you saying you closed around seven. I was hoping to make it before…” he checked his pocket watch, “seven-thirty, but the meeting ran long. I’m just glad I caught you.”

“Oh, have you not eaten?” He stood up from his work again.

“Well, no. But it’s alright, the man who runs the boarding house I’m in is very kind and always has something to offer.”

“Nonsense, hold on.” He set the rag down and shuffled toward the kitchen.

“Have you eaten?” The man followed him as far as the counter. 

“No, I usually bring dinner home…” He didn’t finish ‘to my family’ just in case this was going where he hoped it might be.

“We could eat together? I found this lovely spot by the river where the lights reflect on the water in the most amazing way.”

“I-...yeah, I’d love to. Just give me a few minutes to finish up?”

“Of course.” 

Quicker than he’d ever done it before, Milo finished cleaning the tables and put up the chairs, then hurried into the kitchen. He packed up the sandwiches he’d made to take home to his family and stepped outside through the back. Quick as a flash, he shuffled across the alley to the butcher next door. Just a moment or two after his knock, Jan was at the back door, wiping his hands on a rag and looking slightly crabby at being disturbed. 

“I’m so sorry to do this, but something’s come up and I won’t be making it home any time soon, is there any chance you could have one of your boys run these to my family for me? I’ll pay you for their time.” He held out the sandwiches and gave Jan his best pleading look.

The butcher blinked at the odd request. It made sense, Milo did his best to avoid asking favors whenever possible so this was a very out of character exchange. 

“Yeah, alright. Hand it over.” Jan’s weathered hands closed around the paper wrapped food and took them away. “Don’t worry about paying me, just don’t make a habit of it.” His smile was admonishing but fond. 

“Thank you, Jan.” He ducked back across the alley, already making a note to prepare a special batch of Jan’s favorite beetroot dumplings in the morning. 

When he got back to his own kitchen, he filled two thermoses with the last of the soup and grabbed two onion cakes along with a few cookies, then stumbled back out to the dining room where the man was still waiting patiently, studying one of the paintings on the wall. Which gave him just enough time to gather himself as he approached.

“My grandfather did it. It’s the farm back in Poland.” He held out the thermos and the bun when he was level with the other man. 

“It looks peaceful.”

“I think it was, from all the stories I’ve heard. Well. Before...anyway. The happiest I ever heard dziadek was when he was telling us stories from his childhood on the farm.” When he looked away from the painting, the man was looking at him with a strange expression. “What? Did I say something?” He hadn’t meant to even get that close to mentioning The War, just in case.

“Nothing, nothing, just, you never saw it?”

“No, he sent my parents here years before it all started, I was born here and he followed us. Never got the chance to go back.” 

“But your accent?”

“I was raised speaking Polish, surrounded by other people from the home country. Basically a small piece of Warsaw right here in Chicago.”

“So you’re pretty connected to your culture then?”

“I don’t even know your name and you’re asking me all these questions.”

“Sorry, sorry.” The man’s chuckle echoed his own. “I just. My family’s been here for generations. I don’t know what it’s like. My name’s Anton.”

“Anton. Milo.” He held out his free hand and Anton shook it with his. No indication of where the family was from, then. It didn’t matter, he didn’t seem to have any problems with the largely Polish neighborhood he’d entered into here, and that was really all any of them could ask for.

“Wonderful to meet you, Milo.”

“You too, Anton. Would you like to show me that spot on the river?”

“I’d love to.” 

Milo gestured him out first so he could lock up and they strolled down the street together. They didn’t have to go far, only a few long city blocks, until Anton pointed to a spot where the concrete gave way to a small, almost unnatural looking patch of grass.

“I’ve never seen this spot before.” Anton sat down, crossing his legs under himself, and gestured for Milo to join him.

“It’s nice, right?”

“Lovely.” Milo sat and looked out over the river. Anton had been right, the city lights reflected over the water like magic. 

They opened their thermoses and began to eat. 

“So what brought you to Chicago?” He asked after a few minutes of quiet slurping.

The question hung in the air as Anton visibly thought through how he was going to answer. Even in the dim light, Milo could see the hesitance in his face. 

“I was sent here. For. Work.”

“Work.” He gave him a look. “You don’t have to lie to me, Anton, the entire neighborhood knows what it is you do. I was just wondering why you, and why here?”

Another pause.

“The New York group of my organization got word that Pullman has been mistreating workers more than usual, so they sent me to see if there was anything we could do about the situation. They sent me because, well, I don’t know. I guess I was just the man for the job.”

“I can see why. No one has been able to stop gossiping about you since you arrived. If that’s any indication of your abilities as an orator, I’m already impressed.” He gave him a sly smile and ripped off a small bit of his onion cake. 

He even thought he might have seen a whisper of a blush cross Anton’s cheeks. It was adorable. 

“So do you own the bakery or?” Anton seemed a little harried to change the subject.

“Oh, no. The sisters, Zofia and Hanna-”

“The shopgirls up front.”

“Yes, their father owns it, it’s been in their family for I think a few generations.”

“But your grandfather’s painting is on the wall?”

He looked down at his bread, a smile tugging at his lips. “Our families have been close since my parents arrived here. They helped us get settled and have been there for us since. When I turned sixteen, they gave me a job, I learned everything I know about baking from their father, but he got sick a few years ago so I took over the kitchen. Only after being put through a grueling test of skill, though.” He laughed softly.

“Sounds like you really love them.”

“I do. And they love me. They always let me take dinner home to my family every night.”

“That’s...oh. Did you...are they…?”

“No, no, it’s okay. I asked Jan, the butcher, if one of his sons could take dinner to them tonight and he did.”

“You really do have a community here.” He sounded almost...impressed?

“Well, yes. We’re all sort of alone out here, really, especially people whose families have just arrived, or came after the war. The Jewish folks have it even harder, so we all take care of each other. You never know when you’ll be the one needing help.”

Anton nodded, fingers tugging and kneading at the bread in his hands. 

“But that’s sort of what your...people are all about, right? Forgive me, I’m not very well read.”

“No, no, you’re not far off. The things we believe, it’s like...those Pullman workers, the factory men and the yard workers, they do all this work, this labor, and they never really see the benefits of it. Take those luxury Pullman cars, the ones like the mayor rides in when he goes places, those workers make those cars, every piece of what goes in them, but they’ll never be able to ride in them themselves. They’re not benefitting from their own labor. And what they do get isn’t enough, they’re underpaid and their families and communities suffer for them. We just try to help people...well, come together, to demand better pay, better conditions. Because one person fighting for that can be silenced, but-”

“But everyone coming together is what makes the change.”

“Exactly.” Anton smiled, looking at Milo with such a mix of passion and pride he thought he might burst just from the proximity. 

“So you’re here to bring people together. Not so different.”

“No, I suppose it’s not.” His face softened into something Milo didn’t dare examine too closely, lest he end up getting his heart broken again. After a moment, he looked away. “So you said you speak Polish?”

“Yes, my whole life.”

“Say something in Polish for me.”

He laughed. “Haven’t you heard enough of men yelling in Polish for a lifetime by now?”

“Yelling, sure, I’ve never been just spoken to.”

“Well, what would you like me to say?”

“Are there any old Polish folk sayings you like or anything? Maybe something your father or grandfather said?”

“Ah! Yes,” he laughed a little and stuck a finger in the air in excitement, “my favorite: nie mój cyrk, nie moje małpy.” 

“What does that mean?”

“Ah… ‘not my circus, not my monkeys’. Papa used to say it when we would bring our stupid childhood problems to him to fix.”

“He sounds like an interesting man.”

“He is, he is. What is your father like?”

“My father’s a bit of an ass, honestly.” He chuckled and Milo tilted his head curiously to prompt him to say more. “He was never bad to us or anything, just a stickler for the rules. Like I said, my family came here a really long time ago and my father is a lawyer in New York. He has too much money and power for his own good and no idea what to do with it. But he won’t do anything useful or helpful with it so they just sit on it.”

“How do they feel about what you do?”

“They don’t know, really. They think I have some academic job they don’t understand that takes me away sometimes. I think they’d probably disown me if they found out.”

“They still sound important to you.” He offered, setting his hand on the grass between them.

“They are, as much as I wish I could change them. They could do so much good, they just refuse to. And I’ve tried, but they won’t listen.”

“I’m sorry, that must be frustrating.” 

Anton set his hand down to lean on, and for just a moment their fingers brushed through the leaves of grass. Instinctively they both twitched back just far enough.

“It is. But you don’t want to hear about all that. Anyway. This bread is delicious, what is it?”

“Cebularz. Onion cake. Onions and spices in a spongey dough.”

“Well, yeah. It’s delicious. I’ve also never had Polish food, so far it’s all been delicious.”

“It’s a lot of bread and onions.” He admitted, laughing a little. “But there’s always ways to make it more exciting. Zofia and Hanna’s father taught me this recipe, and he doesn’t know so you must take this to your grave, I’ve changed it just a little since he retired. People like it much better now.”

“I won’t tell a soul.” Anton chuckled softly. 

The river lapped gently against the iron walls, ducks floated down the river, occasionally covering the reflection of a streetlamp or window light with their small bodies. There was very little traffic on the river tonight so the only sounds were the frogs and cicadas of early spring singing their songs into the slowly cooling night. Milo tossed a little bit of cake into the river. It hit the surface with a soft plunk and was immediately set upon by ducks.

“Thank you for inviting me to come eat together, this has been so nice.” He murmured, looking down at the bread in his hands again. “I don’t often get to spend time with people my own age who aren’t Hanna and Zofia.”

“It has been really nice. I’m glad I came back when I did.”

Milo raised his head to meet Anton’s eyes, which were locked on his face. 

“Can I walk you home?” He offered, tentative. He didn’t want to push it so Anton guessed too much and decided he couldn’t be seen with someone like that, being a communist was risk enough for his safety. 

“I think I’m a little far for you to go, but I’ll walk you.”

He let out a little laugh. “Why does that make any more sense? One of us has to walk a bit too far either way.”

“Yeah but I’d rather it be me, you’ve already been on your feet all day.”

“Alright, alright, I won’t argue. Come on.” He hefted himself to his feet and brushed the grass from his trousers. Anton stood and did the same and they exchanged a nod, a silent agreement they were both ready, before starting to walk back. The city was quiet around them, only a few carts passed down the narrow streets as they walked, and Milo realized he had no idea how long they’d been out. It couldn’t have been that long, surely. The two men walked in comfortable silence, the faint sounds of train horns echoing against the brick around them, reminding them they weren’t alone in the city after all. 

“Just down here.” Milo pointed down a side street and Anton followed him to the front door of his family’s small apartment building. 

“It looks nice.” The compliment was an offer, Milo could tell, but he wasn’t quite sure of what.

“It’s alright. The landlord does an okay job on keeping it from decaying. Much better than some of the slums around here. We’re just lucky he isn’t an antisemite, most of the other families in the building are Jewish.” 

Anton nodded and they fell into silence again as Milo unlocked the door.

His fingers hovered at the lock.

“Can I ask you a favor?” The words almost didn’t want to come out of his mouth.

“Of course. What is it?”

“I think what you’re doing is good, and I think...I think it will be good for people to come together. But we...this neighborhood, has seen so much violence. People have gotten hurt just for...for having the wrong mother, or too many ideas. So please, promise there won’t be any more of that from you?”

Anton looked at him for a long moment, brow furrowed in thought. His expression softened when he spoke again. “I promise.” He reached his hand forward, almost closing the distance to Milo’s own hanging fingers but stopped. “I won’t let anything happen to this place, Milo. You have my word.” He stopped, lips slightly parted as though he wanted to say more. “Thank you for dinner, and have...have a good night.” He offered a smile Milo could only describe as tender, then turned and started back down the street. Milo’s fingers twitched forward an inch or two, grasping at the ghost of Anton’s as he stared down the street after the man’s retreating figure. He turned and went inside, climbing the narrow staircase to his small home.


	3. A strange couple of days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a little vignette-y sorry if it feels disjointed.   
> In which Milo and Anton get to know each other a little better  
> Next chapter is written and will be up soon!

“I was sort of wondering when it got quiet around here.” 

Milo looked up from the newspaper he had open on the counter at the sound of Anton’s voice. He hurried to flip it shut and toss it out of sight so as to not seem like he’d been slacking. Which he had; but it was the mid-morning lull and the girls were off on their break, and he was already caught up for the lunch rush, and now it had been nearly fifteen seconds of just staring at Anton like a deer in front of a train. 

“Um. Hi. I-. Yes. After the breakfast rush, usually there’s some quiet. At most old Mr. Jankowski will have a paczki, but that’s mostly Wednesday and Sunday mornings.”

Anton crossed the small distance from the door to the counter, the same smile breaking over his face as when Milo had talked about the community the night before. 

“What?” It was also a smile that made him feel warm and weak inside.

“You know these people so well. It’s nice.”

“Well, everyone in River West comes through these doors. You get to know habits and routines pretty well. I know how every yard worker in the neighborhood takes his coffee.”

Anton broke into a grin. “Ivan?”

They must have met during one of Anton’s speeches or meetings. 

He laughed a little bit. “Black, but only a little. He doesn’t drink very much.”

“Alfons?”

“With cream, and lots of sugar.”

“Really? You’d never guess from the way he wields a hammer.”

“He once told me that was how his grandmother took it, so that’s how he was raised to drink it. I think it’s sweet.”

“Just like his coffee.”

Milo rolled his eyes and they both laughed. 

“So what can I do for you on this lovely morning?” 

“I heard a whisper on the street that your M-Makow...makoow...mahkow something...is delicious, and I wanted to try it.”

Well, he only made Makówki around Christmas, so probably his Makowiec.

“Makowiec? Sure, I just finished a few rolls. I have to ask, before I can in good consciousness serve it to a good Anglo boy like you, do you know what it is?”

“Uh…” He looked sheepish and scratched the back of his head. “No, but I’ve heard it’s good and everything else I’ve tried that you made has been good, so I figure I’ll probably like it, whatever it is.”

He chuckled a little. “It’s a sweet bread rolled around a um...oh what do you call them in English? Poppy seeds. Poppy seed paste. It’s sweet and a little bitter and very tasty, but I’ve never served it to anyone who didn’t grow up with it, so I worry you may not like it.”

“Like I said, I’ll try anything you make. Especially if it’s so highly praised.”

Milo could feel his cheeks turning pink. 

“Of course, coming right up.” He turned to start to serve it. “And. Thank you. Coffee to go with it?”

“Please. And, if you’re not busy, which, judging by the newspaper now on the floor, you aren’t, maybe you could join me?”

“Oh. I.” His fingers faltered and he almost dropped the slice of makowiec he was plating. “I don’t know, I...What if someone comes in?”

“What, no one’s ever seen you anywhere but behind that counter?”

“Well, usually they never see me at all, I’m usually in the kitchen when there’s anyone in the shop.”

“Oh come on, a cup of coffee and a treat. That’s all I ask. Once you finish your coffee, I’ll sit quietly by myself in the corner and you can keep watch from your post.” The end of the request came with a gesture to the counter and a teasing smile.

And Milo was helpless to it. “Fine, fine. I...I would like that very much, yes. One second.” He served two cups of coffee and set a small slice of babka on a plate for himself. When he came back to Anton at the counter, the man was holding out a dollar. He waved it off. “Please, it’s on me. Don’t worry about it.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to put you out of business.”

“A single dollar, how will we ever recover?” He gave him a teasing smile, lining both plates and cups next to each other before walking around the counter. They both picked up their dishes and found a small table in the corner. When they had both settled, Milo chanced a glance up at Anton, who was looking curiously down at his bread. 

“You...you just pick it up...with your hands.” He pinched either side of his own babka to show him.

“Won’t it collapse?”

“Careful.” He grinned a little. “Never insult the strength of a man’s makowiec.”

“My sincerest apologies. I wouldn’t dream of it. Here.” He carefully pinched either side of the slice and raised it to his lips. Milo watched him take a cautious bite and found himself laughing at the look of surprise that flashed across Anton’s face. “It’s...really good. It’s strange. I’ve never had anything like it, but...it’s delicious.”

He couldn’t help but grin in triumph. “I’m so glad you like it. Would you like to try the babka?” He nudged his plate toward him.

“Is it just bread?”

“It’s a dough sort of like the makowiec dough, a sweet yeasted bread, wrapped around nuts and fruit. Here.” He pushed it closer again.

“Alright, alright.” He watched as Anton picked it up and brought it to his mouth. “Mmm. See, that’s much more...approachable.”

Milo laughed. “Would you like to switch?”

“Oh absolutely not.” Anton pulled his plate defensively closer and Milo laughed again. He was kind of adorable. 

Milo took a sip of his coffee. “Did you...so. What else do you have today? Some rally or speech?”

The smile was back, the smile that if Milo dared hope, said something like ‘aren’t you cute?’. “A meeting at four with some of the factory workers from the meat plant.”

“Oh are you not specifically here for the train workers?”

“Well, that’s what I was sent for, but a few of the neighborhood men have asked me to come speak in the factory as well.”

“Wow. See, I was right.”

“What?”

“Your oratory skills. And maybe just your...your charm.” It came out half-mumbled, almost as though he was afraid of Anton hearing. Which he supposed he was. If the man took it at all the wrong way, they were alone and Milo might be a bit bigger but Anton was probably used to violence and Milo couldn’t even bring himself to kill the mice that sometimes crept in the back of the kitchen and-

“I mean, I’d say you’ve only seen a fraction of my charms.”

Wait, what? 

“I-I suppose that’s true…” What he said next would be very important and Milo knew he had to play his hand very carefully. “Perhaps I should come see you speak sometime.”

Anton’s gaze darted around the shop, lingering for a moment on the windows at the front before slowly raising his hand to rest on the table, fingers barely, like a ghost, touching the tips of Milo’s work-worn hands. 

“That’s...not exactly what I meant. Milo, I...last night was...well I…” As he struggled to get the words out, the bell above the door rang and it seemed as loud as all the bells of St. John’s ringing all at once. The sister’s giggles followed it in and Milo and Anton both jumped back as though struck by lightning.

“Well I. I should get back to the kitchen. Thank you Anton, this was...this was really lovely.” Ignoring the burning heat in his cheeks, Milo all but leapt to his feet, picking up his dishes and scurrying back to the safety of his kitchen. If all the blood hadn’t been rushing to his ears, he might have heard Anton curse under his breath.

Anton became a regular at the cafe, but it wasn’t the same. He’d come in every morning, a good hour after opening, when the shop was just past the heaviest of the morning rush but still well populated. He’d order something new each time, and a cup of coffee. He’d take them to the same small table in the back corner, and read his newspaper to the last page, eat his confection to the last crumb and drain his coffee, and then cast a wave at the sisters behind the counter. At some point over the hour or so this ritual took, Milo would dare approach the window in the kitchen door just to look at him for a moment. 

This went on for about a week until Zofia finally said something. 

It was a quiet Wednesday morning, just after the rush died down leaving only Mr. Jankowski sitting by the window sipping his coffee and raising fingers, shaking with old age, to his mouth with torn off bites of paczki pinched like in a vice between them.

“You really must stop pining like that, someday he will notice.”

Milo’s hand froze halfway to the case and it was all he could do not to crush the ginger cookie in his palm in surprise.

“I...I don’t know what you mean. He is just my friend.” Was he though? They hadn’t spoken since the conversation the girls had cut short. Not that Milo had dared leave the kitchen when Anton was there, but it wasn’t as though Anton had ever asked after him either.

“If he was your friend, you would say hello, not stare out of the kitchen like some kicked puppy.” Zofia took a cookie from the tray and bit into it before he could say anything to chastise her about wasting perfectly good product. 

“I don’t look like a puppy. You look like a puppy.” Not his best comeback, but he couldn’t help his fluster at having been caught. 

“Woooow.” Hanna was laughing at him from across the room.

“Alright,” he unbent to face her, “if we must resort to this. It’s not as though you look any better, mooning at Kacper every time he walks past without coming in.”

“At least Kacper has known poor Zo is in love with him since they were children. You just stare at this poor man and he has no idea.”

“What am I supposed to do?” He sighed, going back to emptying the tray onto the racks. “It’s not as though I can do what you might. I cannot bring him a box of cookies shaped like hearts and ask him to take me dancing.” He chose not to look too closely at the heart-shaped cookies he had just laid out with a fresh dusting of powdered sugar. 

That silenced the girls. For all their teasing, they meant it with love, and they knew how sad it often made Milo to see the yard workers he so secretly lusted after walk past their windows arm-in-arm with beautiful young girls. Before he had even been ready to admit it himself, the two had figured it out, the way he would talk about the other boys in the neighborhood when he came home from playing. And to his utter shock, they accepted him. He knew how rare it was, he’d heard the stories of raided molly houses and men beaten to pulp in back alleys for looking too long at another man. But they never told anyone, only barbed him kindly in quiet moments when one of his infatuations got too obvious. Kept him on his toes. And made him feel like he wasn’t as strange as he was. 

“I’m sorry, ‘Lo.” Hanna murmured. “It’s just-”

He waved off what he knew was coming. “I know I know, you just want to see me happy.” His sullen frown was replaced with a smile when he raised his head to look at his almost-sisters, both looking at him with concern. “But I am happy. I have you two, what more could I need?”

Zofia laughed and stepped forward to give his shoulder a shove that barely moved him at all. “You sentimental sap, what will we do with you?”

“Just hug me so I can go back to baking. Babka doesn’t make itself you know.” 

They hugged, grins mirrored across all their faces. 

“Now, back to work.” Milo pulled back, giving them both an affectionate push toward the register. 

Milo laid in bed that night clutching his pillow. It had been over a week since Anton had spoken to him. Since he had spoken to Anton. What had he been about to say? Had only seen a fraction of his charms? Surely that couldn’t have meant…

He didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t dare. People like him didn’t get...things like that. Didn’t get invited to see ‘other charms.’ It just wasn’t his lot in life and he’d known it for a long time. 

So why couldn’t he shake the thought? Why was he still lying awake at...he looked at the clock, 11:45PM, a week after the words had hit his ears, turning them over and over as though some new meaning would fall out of them?

He must forget it. It would do him no good dreaming and asking after what-ifs. 

But that smile.

And the look he’d had in those crystal blue eyes, which had looked so intently at Milo as though there was something special Anton could see in his face. Something worth risking everything for.

Forget it. He shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to will his body and mind to sleep. He threw his arm across his eyes. This was no different than any of the times his thoughts were caught on a yard worker who gave him a lingering smile or said something nice about his Sernik around the holidays.

But it was. Even in the closest moments, the ones that made Milo think maybe someday, he’d never seen a look like that in another man’s eyes. Never felt so...so…

He didn’t dare think it. He rolled over onto his side and buried his face in his pillow but the ghost of Anton’s face wouldn’t leave him, as though it was imprinted on the backs of his eyelids. His cheeks flushed in shame as his hand found its way between his legs. 

It hadn’t taken him long to fall asleep after that, and the next day started as any other. 

Except that it didn’t. 

When Milo arrived at the bakery the next morning to open, there was a newspaper sitting on the step in front of the door. Only it wasn’t a newspaper. It was a newspaper wrapped around something rectangular and tied with twine. The baker frowned and bent to pick it up. It was heavier than he would have guessed from its size. Frown firmly still in place, he unlocked the front door and let himself in. He took the package to the counter and set down his keys, then pulled at the twine. The newspaper fell open to reveal a leather bound book, a deep brown with a gold rectangle embossed around the edge. He turned it on its side. He nearly dropped the book when he read the words printed in gold lettering on the side. “Das Kapital.”   
Who would deliver a book like this, here? Most of the rabbel in the neighborhood were old world anarchists, and the communists in the neighborhood, while they would sometimes leave pamphlets or fliers, didn’t seem particularly interested in books like this. He turned his body to the windows, just in case someone was looking, and set the book down. There must be some kind of explanation, he picked up the paper it had come in and turned it about until a folded piece of paper came fluttering out and fell to the stone counter. A small relief. He picked it up. In tight, neat handwriting was scrawled,

“Milo, I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable the other morning. I didn’t mean anything by it, and I hope you can forgive me. I’ve enjoyed our conversations and would hate to have lost the chance to have more by saying –or almost saying– something I shouldn’t have. Anyway. I found an extra copy of this book and I wanted you to have it. Marx is one of the foundational thinkers of the group I work with and I thought you might be interested in learning more. I understand this is no small gesture and won’t blame you if you burn it, but before you do, I’m giving a speech today (Thursday) at the Union Stock Yards at 2pm. It would mean a lot to me if you would come.   
Yours,  
Anton.”

Milo didn’t realize his hand was covering his mouth until he set the paper down and needed both hands to brace himself against the counter. This couldn’t be real. Surely. He pinched the back of his hand and hissed in pain. So maybe it was real. He closed a shaking hand around the book and note and walked behind the counter to tuck them as far back on the shelf underneath as he could. He could think about that once the dough was rising. 

Well, at least he had admitted he didn’t mean anything by what he had said. Almost said. So Milo could tuck that away as reason to come back to his senses and never think of him like he had the night before again. He could go back to railway men who gave him kind, pockmarked smiles when he handed them their sandwiches and never think of Anton again.   
That thought stung a little bit. And the dough under his fingers might have gotten a slightly firmer kneading than was strictly necessary.   
Once all the loaves were in the oven and the kitchen was clean again, he looked around. He had lots of things left to do but something pulled him toward the icebox. By some mistake a day or two before, the grocer had delivered a shipment of lemons with their flour and butter and produce. They didn’t get lemons often, they were too expensive, but Milo was never one to question good fortune, and they hadn’t been charged for them, so he hadn’t said anything. He’d stowed them away in the ice box until he could think of something worth using them on. Something about this morning though, with the early summer wind already warming the morning and the beautiful bright lemons just sitting there, drew him to take them from their crate and carry them to the counter. 

Milo would be the first to admit curds were not his specialty, in fact they were the thing his mentor had taken the longest to pound into his head, but he took each step slowly, making meticulous use of every drop of juice and every shred of zest he could get from the lemons, until he had a large bowl of lemon curd cooling on the counter. The next thing was the puff pastry, which would take a small amount of attention for the rest of the day, but it would be worth it. When he’d finished the first turn, he set it to chill and covered the curd to sit and rest in a safe, cool place.   
Then back to work on the regular menu. 

At about 9, as every day, Milo strained his neck to get a glimpse of Anton through the window. And there he was, beautiful as ever, sunlight streaming in to make his golden hair glow like a halo around his head. And there was Hanna, just in the corner of his vision, looking at the window and raising an eyebrow. He opened his mouth, not sure exactly what it was he was going to say, or what good saying it would do, when he noticed Anton look up and catch him in the window. He raised his hand in a small wave and Milo’s cheeks lit up. He was blushing far too much these days for his liking. He ducked out of sight and all but ran back to his breads. 

After that embarrassment, not much happened the rest of the morning, and lunch was busy but passed like normal. The note and book hidden under the counter, despite his best efforts, did not stop burning in the front of Milo’s mind. He almost burned two batches of cookies and nearly dropped an entire pot of soup before 11am. He knew he had to go. Even if these were the only charms Anton had been referring to, it was clearly important to the man that Milo be there and he couldn’t bring himself to let him down. He hadn’t seen disappointment on Anton’s face yet, and he wouldn’t be starting today. Once the rush passed, he ate a quick lunch of cabbage soup and a slice of bread and left the kitchen. The girls were, as ever, behind the counter gossiping. He wrapped his fingers around a strand of Zofia’s chestnut hair and gave a gentle tug. 

“I’m going out for some of the afternoon. I’ve baked ahead for the next few hours, and I’ll be back in time for dinner, so don’t worry about that.” He untied his apron and handed it to Zofia. “If anything goes wrong, have one of Jan’s boys come fill in, they should be able to make a decent loaf of bread at least, if Jan isn’t as much of a braggart as I think he is.”

“Where are you going?” Hanna demanded, half excitement and half concern. 

“Out. I told you. I’ll be back, don’t worry. Just keep things from burning down until I am.” With a smile over his shoulder, he opened the door and stepped out, the jingling of the bell following him a few paces down the street as it swung shut. He took a deep breath of the musty city air and looked up at the sky. It had been several years since he’d seen a mid-afternoon sky and he’d almost forgotten how beautiful it was. The air, dirty as it was in the city, was moving in a gentle breeze that cooled his skin and he realized for the first time in a while just how hot the kitchen was and how used to it he’d gotten. He rolled up his sleeves and tucked his hands in his pockets. The Union stock yards weren’t far and all he really had to do was walk along Halsted beside the tracks to get there. It hadn’t occurred to him that it was a large plant, and he’d only ever seen it from the outside, and Anton hadn’t exactly specified where he’d been speaking. But before he could get too lost, he caught a conversation between two workers as they brushed past him talking about the “commie from out west” who they were going to see. He let them get a few steps ahead and fell into their shadow. Sure enough, they led him straight to the break room where the tables had been pushed aside to make room for rows of chairs, about four of them, all slightly ramshackle and mismatched. The rest of the room was clear for standing, and all but packed save for a couple lingering inches around the edges. 

Milo made his way to a corner where there was some space atop a table to stake his claim and made himself as small as possible. Though he was clearly no aristocrat, Milo knew he was out of place here, and the less attention he could draw to himself the better. He tucked himself behind a few tall men with just enough room between their shoulders to see the front of the room.  
The metal bell –some indicator of shifts, Milo was sure– rang as the clock struck 2 and Anton stepped up onto the table at the front of the room.

“Friends! Comrades!” At his shout, the room fell silent. That in itself was enough to impress Milo, who had seen most of these men come through his doors, running their mouths the whole time, every ounce of them indicating they perceived no authority above their own. “Thank you for coming. I’m here today not to teach you anything you don’t already know, but to bring you some hope that in what you feel, you are not alone.”

Anton looked over the crowd as he spoke and Milo felt a jolt in his chest when their eyes met. He almost wanted to hope Anton felt it too when he heard the slight falter in the man’s voice. He gave him an encouraging smile and fell back a little more. The last thing he wanted was to be a distraction. Anton’s words rang off the barred glass windows of the breakroom, and many of his points aroused soft murmurs through the crowd, murmurs mostly of agreement and assent. He spoke for about twenty minutes, talking about things like unions, collective bargaining, just wages and worker’s rights. And the crowd was rapt, every belligerent man in the room seemed to hang on every word Anton spoke. And Milo had to count himself among them. The way Anton addressed them was so compelling, he was confident but not condescending. He spoke to the men as though he was one of them, understood their worries. The war had taken a toll on all of them, their wages still hadn’t recovered, prohibition was weighing heavy on their backs, their friends were unable to work due to shellshock and insufficient access to treatment, their families were struggling to get by as the slow engine of trade was just beginning to steam its way back to life. 

Milo watched the crowd at the mention of the war. Shellshock. He thought of Hanna and Zofia’s father who had been just barely saved from service by his condition. He thought of all the men who came to his shop every day, and each one suddenly one day stopped coming. When their wives or sisters would come in, they wouldn’t have to say anything, it was obvious on their faces that they were gone and no one knew if they would be back. His own heart had ached as he would stand beside the girls at the counter, barely out of his pubescence, hiding behind their father’s apron. And it ached now as he looked around the room, remembering faces that were now missing. The crowd felt it too, clearly, many of their heads hung in silent memory. Milo lowered his gaze as well. 

“Their absence is a tragic loss, and one we all feel still.” Anton’s tone was careful, and gave way to the loss and mourning the room was feeling. Milo wondered briefly how many people Anton knew who had gone overseas. Who had he lost? “But it is in their names that we must fight. The world they fought for, heroically lost their lives for, cannot be one in which their brothers, friends, comrades, suffer under a system that would only see them crushed under its boot when they’ve wrung out your last drop of use.” More murmurs of approval. 

Anton’s eyes met his again and Milo gave a watery smile. 

When the speech was over, Anton promised he would be around for some time to answer questions, pass out literature. Milo took his chance, right when Anton dropped down from the table, to slip to the front of the room and meet him. When he approached, Anton’s face lit up. 

“I’m so glad you could come.”

“I wasn’t sure I would. But I did say I wanted to see. It was incredible. You...are incredible. Come by the bakery tonight, I’ll keep the door unlocked late. I’m making something special for dessert tonight.”

Before Anton could respond, Milo was cut off by several men pushing forward with questions. He took the chance to slip away through the crowd back out to the yard and on home.


	4. An Errand and The Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Milo ventures outside his comfort zone for the second, third, and fourth times of the day.

He really wasn’t sure Anton would take him up on his request. Maybe he’d been too forward, or maybe it implied too much. He didn’t even really know why he’d made it, sure lemon curd wasn’t the most common thing to get in River West, but Anton could surely afford somewhere further south where they had it every day, so it wasn’t nearly as special to him as it would be to anyone else who would be through the shop that night, and he didn’t know what else he could possibly offer. He had no great ideas about what Anton had said, just a general hum of excitement that had run through his body for the duration of the speech that he wanted desperately to express. 

So he needed something else special. 

Something Anton wouldn’t be able to get anywhere else that night. 

His hands stilled over the rows of sausages he was dressing for the stew. Of course. It was only a few more steps to get the pot ready, and then just an hour of simmering, so plenty of time to run his errand. 

The Wójcik family pharmacy was just a quick jog up the road and it wasn’t long before he was letting himself in the front door. Natan, the oldest son, was at the counter, uniformed in white as usual. 

“Milo, long time no see!” He greeted happily, extending a hand over the counter. Milo took it and they pulled each other to meet half way across and slap their free hands on the other’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry, you know how busy it gets.”

“Yes, yes, make your excuses. What can I do for you? Tell me Emil’s cough isn’t back.”

“No, no. Both twins are in good health, thank you. I was hoping to...speak to your father.” 

A sly grin spread across Natan’s face. “Ah, you need a...specialty order, eh?”

“Oh please, Natan, I have a stew on the fire, will you just take me to him?”

Natan laughed and lifted the hinged gate to let Milo behind the counter. He led him through the back door to the family’s living quarters and up to Oskar’s office. Natan knocked three times.

“Father! Milo Banik is here to see you!”

A long silence. A heavy cough. “Come in.” In the heaviest, thickest Polish accent Milo had ever heard, including from his own family. 

Natan opened the door, and there, sitting heavy as his accent behind a broad wooden desk, was Oskar Wójcik. He had ties to the old world no one else in the neighborhood did and he had certain ways of getting things, if you knew how to ask. 

“Milo, my dear boy.” He was also an old friend of Milo’s grandfather. “What can I do for you?”

“Mr. Wójcik-”

“Oskar, please, you are like a nephew to me.”

“Yes, forgive me, Oskar, I...well, tonight is something of a special night for me. I have a friend who I’d very much like to impress…”

He chuckled and took a puff of a cigar as fat as his fingers. “Tell me what you need, Milo, you are no ballerina, do not try to dance around it.”

“Yes, sorry. I was hoping you had a bottle of vodka I could buy off of you? I have some money saved up, so I can give you whatever you need.” 

Another chuckle. “Is that all? From your face I thought you were going to ask me to have someone killed.”

“I-...n-no I just…”

“He’s joking.” Natan, whose presence Milo had almost forgotten, laid a comforting hand on Milo’s shoulder. 

“He’s right, that you do not have the money for and we both know it.” 

Milo swallowed heavily. He really, really didn’t want to think about that right now. 

“But, a bottle of good Polish vodka? That I can do for you no problem.” He hefted himself out of the leather chair almost twice his size and made his way across the room, heavily carpeted in expensive Persian rugs to a locked armoire against the far wall beside a painted portrait of the Wójcik family. “In fact.” The padlock opened with a thunk. “I won’t even charge you money for it, all I ask is a favor.”

A favor for a man whose assassination prices Milo couldn’t afford. Seemed perfectly reasonable. 

“I can pay.” His voice only wavered a little as he put his foot down. “It’s not an issue.”

“Milo relax.” Oskar laughed as he crossed the room again to hand him the elegant crystal bottle. “I’m not going to ask you for anything dangerous. My daughter, Lena, my eldest, she lives across the city now with her rich lawyer husband. One of her better decisions, all told, but she is so far away. It’s her birthday this weekend and you remember how she loved Gustaw’s Tort’s. I know you make them just the same. All I ask is you make her one for her birthday on Saturday and deliver it to her with my love.”

“Oh.” He sighed in relief. Is that all? “Yes, of course. I’d be more than happy. I haven’t seen Lena in years. That’s no problem.” He clutched the bottle of vodka in his hands. 

“Then we are set!” Oskar pulled him into a hug that smelled of vodka and cigar smoke, trapping Milo’s hands between them, gripping his vodka like a lifeline. “So good to see you, my boy. Actually, an added favor, since I’ve missed you and your family so dearly.” He released him from the hug, one large hand still gripping Milo’s shoulder as though the baker were a horse about to bolt. 

“Y-Yes?”

“Once a week, I want you to bring me one of those delicious makowiec loaves you make. And don’t leave it with the boys, bring it up to me and we’ll have a slice together.”

“That sounds l-lovely, Oskar, absolutely. Thank you so much.”

“Anything for Andrzej’s grandson. Now, Natan will take you downstairs and get you a sack for that bottle. Can’t have you getting caught leaving here with it.”

Milo nodded, still clutching the bottle to his chest. “Thank you so much, again. I look forward to our meetings.”

Natan brought him downstairs to the pharmacy and outfitted him with a bag to smuggle the vodka back to the bakery. As he did, he talked him through not looking suspicious and reminding him to remain calm and not give anything away. He had just visited the pharmacy and bought a few necessities, that was all.

Milo almost found it funny, the way some of the people in his life mistook his inexperience and easily flustered nature for childishness. He’d been hiding things from his mother all his life, just like any child, and he was a grown man now, it wasn’t as though he’d never lied or snuck around before. But he let Natan talk to him as though he was truly so naive, nodding and murmuring assent when it was needed. Natan clapped him on the shoulder when he finished.

“Good to see you again, Milo. I look forward to your visits.”

“Me too, thank you Natan.” He nodded his head in farewell and ducked back out the door. That had taken longer than he would have liked and the stew would surely need stirring by now.

With two pieces of contraband now hidden away in different parts of the shop, Milo had a little more trouble maintaining his calm the rest of the afternoon. He’d snuck in the back door to keep Hanna and Zofia from commenting on his errand, they’d already asked enough questions after his outing earlier in the afternoon, and immediately hidden the vodka as far back into the icebox as he could get it. 

He finished the Kremówka, taking extra care to not waste a drop of lemon curd, and cut a special piece to save out beside the vodka. The rest he brought out to the storefront, and was met with a wall of sound like he’d almost never seen in the shop before. It was packed and the girls were running to-and-fro to keep up with all the customers. 

“Help!” Zofia wound around behind him to get at the kettle of pierogi steaming away next to the pots of soup. 

“I’ll be out in a minute.” He hurried back into the kitchen to get rid of the tray in his hands and was immediately back out to help serve.

The dinner rush kept his mind too busy to dwell on the evening to come and he worked almost mechanically, plating and serving orders as quickly as he could.

“That almost felt cruel.” Hanna collapsed forward onto the counter once the last customer left a few minutes before seven.

“You’re telling me. My feet have never hurt so much in my life.” Zofia was slumped against the wall. 

Milo just mumbled a tired agreement, himself collapsed against the pastry case. 

“Why were all those people even here? I’ve never seen a rush like that.”

“Is there any papers anywhere? Perhaps that handsome communist said something again.”

Handsome communist. Fuck. Milo all but leapt off the case and started scrambling to clean up. “You two should go home, I can clean up here, just would you mind stopping by the apartment with some dinner for my family? I’ll be home late and I wouldn’t want them to wait-”

“Milo, in Christ’s name, calm down.” Zofia groaned from the wall. “We can help you clean, it would be ridiculous to try to do it yourself.”

“No, I insist, you two go.” He really, really needed them out of the cafe in the next five minutes or things would get very awkward very quickly. 

“Alright, alright. He’s being strange again, Hanna, we should probably just go.”

Hanna sighed heavily and hauled herself off the counter. “Fine, fine. Just grab the last of the pierogi and Emil and Konstantin can gorge themselves on that.”

“There’s a tin of soup in the kitchen by the stove for them as well!” Milo was wiping down tables like his life depended on it. Which it sort of felt like it did.

But the sisters did leave, making little more fuss and promising to go straight to his family with their dinner. 

It was only a few minutes after they left that Milo heard the bells above the door again, still furiously scrubbing down tables. 

“Do you...need a few minutes or?” 

It was only when he stood and spun at Anton’s voice that Milo realized how truly discheviled he must look. His apron was stained in more places than not and he could feel at least a few locks of his hair sticking up at strange angles. 

“Oh gosh. Rough night?” Anton’s hands were tucked into his pockets and he looked infuriatingly calm and collected for how frazzled Milo felt. And looked. 

“Busy. More customers than we’ve had in years. Was that your doing?”

“I may have mentioned a little cafe I frequent to some of the men I talked to. I didn’t think they’d all come here tonight though.”

“Well, I’ll thank you for the income, but I will not thank you for the state of my feet and back in the morning.”

Anton shrugged. “I’ll take it. But really, do you need a minute? Or, some help?”

Milo set his hands on his hips and looked around. Really he’d done most of it, only a few chairs were left unstacked and the counter was a little dirty, but he could take care of that later. 

“No, I think everything is in enough order. Give me a moment, I’ll get us some dinner...that is, I assume you haven’t eaten?”

“No, I wanted to save my appetite.” Anton smiled, sitting down at his usual corner table, which Milo hadn’t even realized he’d avoided stacking chairs onto. 

“Wonderful. I’ll just be a moment.” He ducked into the kitchen, untying his apron as he did and dropping it next to the till. He filled two bowls with soup and two plates with pierogies, set them on a tray, and brought them out, stopping to grab two cups of coffee. He brought it all to their table and set it down, unloading each plate and bowl and cup carefully so he could put the tray away immediately. When he returned and finally sat down, his entire body was hit with waves of soreness and fatigue. “Fuck.” He sighed. It had been a long day.

Only when he sat up to begin eating did he realize that Anton had been giving him a strange look since he returned with the tray. 

“Is...Is there something on my face?” He reached up to wipe his cheek.

“Well. Actually, yes. Here.” Anton reached across the table and brushed his thumb over Milo’s brow. The minute their skin touched, they both froze. Just a second passed but it was enough to knock what little air Milo had left in his lungs completely out of him. “I. Um. Just a little. I don’t know. Green onion, maybe?”

“Sounds about right.” Milo tried to laugh. 

“But no I...I realized just now. Today’s the first time I’ve ever seen you without the apron on. I mean. I guess I did this afternoon but I didn’t really notice, given the context. But. Yeah.”

“Well I...it does come off, you know. I don’t actually live in this bakery.”

“Well, obviously, but I. I don’t know. It feels different to see you like this.”

“Good different or...or bad different?”

Anton’s gaze once again softened. “Good different.” 

“I...I’m glad.” He took a bite of his pierogi and Anton did the same.

“God, everything you make is so good. Why don’t I eat more Polish food? Why has no one ever made me eat more Polish food?”

“They are fools.” Milo answered simply and Anton laughed. 

“Yeah, you’re probably right.”

They ate the rest of their dinner in silence, Milo much too concerned with relieving the hunger pangs wracking his body to worry about whether Anton was judging his ravenousness. 

When his stomach finally felt full, Milo sat back a little and sipped at his coffee. His whole body ached and he was only realizing now his haste and haze throughout the day had caused him to slip up and burn and cut his hands a number of times. It wasn’t surprising, but it had been some time since he’d made so many missteps. He turned them over a few times each, assessing the damage. Nothing a few bandages wouldn’t fix. When he looked up, he realized Anton was looking at him again.

“What?”

“Are you okay?”

“What? These? Yes, it happens sometimes. Sometimes the speed outweighs the caution.” He chuckled a little. 

“Your hands almost look like some of those men down at the packing plant.” Anton’s tone was trying to be jovial, but Milo could still hear the concern.

“Oh don’t worry, it’s only a few scratches, really. I’ll bandage them when I get home and I’ll be fine. Are you finished?” He gestured toward Anton’s empty dishes. 

“Yes, but let me take them to the kitchen at least? You seem so tired.”

“No, no.” Milo did his best to hide the aches and twinges as he got to his feet and stacked the dishes. “I have a special surprise, remember?”

“Right, right. Okay. Fine. But I’m cleaning that up, whatever it is.”

“If you insist.” 

“I do.” Milo smiled and brought the dishes to the kitchen, stopping briefly to draw the curtains over the front windows. No one ever passed by this late, but with a bottle of vodka worth Lena’s birthday tort on the line, it wasn’t worth risking getting caught. 

From the back of one of the least used cabinets, Milo dug out two of Gustaw’s shot glasses, heirlooms from the old world. He grabbed the vodka and the Kremówka from the icebox and brought the armful out to the table. He set the cake down first and then the bottle and the two glasses.

Anton sat back and surveyed the items.   
“Now explain...all of this to me.”  
Milo couldn’t stop his laugh at that. “The cake is called Kremówka, it’s like the Karpatka you tried the first time you came in but...fancier. And we got a shipment of lemons by accident so there’s a lemon curd inside the cream. This…” he gestured to the bottle of vodka, “is from the old country, and something you can’t get here without going to quite a bit of trouble. But I wanted tonight to be special.” He blushed at his own boldness and kept going as though he hadn’t said it. “Have you ever had vodka before?”

“Vodka? No, god no. Whiskey, here and there, and my dad likes rum, but never vodka. I’ve heard it’s horrible.” 

He huffed. “Only to you Western boys with no taste.” He picked up the bottle delicately and slowly, like he was performing a sacred task, opened the cap. The cork came out with a lovely “pop” and he sniffed at it. “Beautiful.”

“Can I try the cake first or…?”

“You will probably want it to help the taste after.” Milo laughed and poured out two shots. 

“Oh god.”

“Na zdrowie.” Milo grinned and raised his shot. Less enthused but undeterred, Anton lifted his and raised it.

“Cheers.” 

They both knocked back their shot, Milo grimacing a little but ultimately leaning back with a smile; Anton didn’t fare so well. He hacked on the liquid at first, then wheezed through the next few breaths.

“Why do you drink that stuff?”

“Because it is good?”

“Oh my god, it’s like someone lit my entire mouth and lungs on fire but like the fire was water and the water was also acid.”

“Yes, vodka.” He grinned and poured another shot for each of them. “The second one is easier.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You’ll just have to try it. Then we can have cake.”

“Only for the cake.” Anton picked up the shot and they once again downed them together.

He hacked and coughed again and Milo let out a hiss at his own shot before beginning to laugh. “It gets easier over time, I promise. I hated it my first time too.”

“Yeah? How old were you when they first let you drink that industrial waste?”

“Fourteen, it’s a rite of passage in my family. And this is good vodka, you should taste some of the bad stuff.”

“How did you get that anyway? It’s not exactly easy to get alcohol into the country right now.”

“A family friend, that’s all I can tell you. And probably all you want to know.”

“God. Okay. I need cake now.” Anton picked up the fork and broke through the flakey pastry on the top layer of the cake. “All of it in one?”

“Yes, it is cake. Just eat it like cake.”

“Okay, well, listen. I’ve eaten some weird stuff since coming to Chicago, you never know.”

He laughed and picked up his own fork. He took a bite and smiled peacefully as the delicate lemon flavor danced across his tongue. 

“Milo this is amazing.” Anton’s voice was almost a moan and Milo willed his cheeks not to turn red. And of course failed. “You’re incredible at this, you know that? You could...you could work in Paris doing this, London, New York, anywhere you wanted. You’re amazing.” 

“Oh stop. I’m not that good. And I’m happy making these things for my people here. They’re all I need.”

Anton just shook his head, a small smile crossing his lips. 

“And anyway, I really wanted to tell you how glad I am that I went to your speech today. You’re the incredible one. I’ve never seen any of the men around here listen like that. They respected you and admired you in a way that just...it was amazing.”

“Well I won’t say I’m not a little proud of it.” Anton watched as Milo poured two more shots. “I’m glad you came. So you got…”

“Yes, I got your gift. I will read it, when I can, though it might take me some time. I can’t exactly read it on the street or in front of my family.”

“I understand. I’m just glad you didn’t immediately call the police or something.” That came with a nervous chuckle and Anton’s fingers wrapped around his shot glass, spinning it in slow circles in place.

“I would never bring police into this neighborhood, they’re as likely to burn down a Jewish apartment building as do any good.” Milo shook his head. “Forgive me. And what you were saying in your speech. About honoring those we’ve lost, continuing to fight for a better world. I may not understand your philosophy fully, though I’m excited to learn, but any work driven by that is not work I would ever want to see shut down. I’m just glad someone as persuasive as you is the one doing it.” He downed his shot and Anton once again mirrored him. “Thank you for inviting me.” 

“It does get easier. Or maybe it’s just burning away my throat so I can’t feel it. Either way, it doesn’t hurt quite as badly.” Anton was holding up the shot glass, examining its emptiness. 

“Any more and I would have to finally walk you home, so maybe we should stop.” 

“Let’s finish the cake first? What did you call it again? Kreme something?”

“Kremówka.” 

“Kremeoowka.” 

“Close enough.” Milo laughed and they both dug in once again. 

When the plate was empty, true to his word, Anton carried it back to the kitchen. Milo poured two more shots. Upon his return, Anton shifted his chair a little closer around the table and sat back down, knee almost brushing Milo’s. 

“Wh…” 

“Just, we’re alone, I don’t see why we have to sit so far apart. That’s all.”

“I see. Yes I suppose that makes sense. Here.” He handed Anton the shot glass and they downed them again. 

“This is the good stuff huh?”

“The bad stuff tastes like...well. You probably don’t want to know.” Milo laughed softly. 

“Yeah no I definitely don’t.” Anton rested his arm on the table and suddenly their bodies were much closer. “I’m sorry if I’ve been avoiding you the past week. I didn’t mean...I just, with how our last conversation ended, I didn’t know if you’d want to talk to me or...but I’m glad you came today.”

“I’m sorry too. You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m sorry Hanna and Zofia interrupted, I wanted to know what...what you would...well. It’s over, now, right? This has been a very nice time and I’m glad we can be friends again.” 

The last word had barely left his mouth when he realized just how close Anton’s face had gotten. They were inches apart and he could smell the lemon and vodka with each breath and he was sure Anton could as well. 

“Wha…”

Anton shushed him, almost silently, as he closed the space between them. Their lips brushed so lightly Milo almost wasn’t sure it was really happening. He didn’t pull away and Anton pressed more firmly. It was definitely happening. He had no idea what to do, he’d never done this before, not with anyone. His eyes fell shut but his mouth froze and Anton pulled away. His eyes flew open immediately and the other man was staring at him like he’d just seen a ghost. 

“I-...I should go.” Anton leapt to his feet and hurried for the door. “I’m sorry. I. I shouldn’t have...I’m sorry. I’ll...I’ll see you, Milo. Goodnight.” 

And with that he was gone. And Milo was once again alone.


End file.
